NaPoWriMo 2024 — Day 3

Coddle

the glass lay where I came from,
a pitiful portrait
imprinted on her lap

I was the last chance for failed love,
a reminder of his eyes, the ones
that pierced what shrapnel of soul
she had left

she burned the swaddlings,
prayed the flames
could purify the wedlocked babe,
& refused to look upon my growth
because it is the highest insult

she tied the strings tighter to the board
so the caretaker wouldn’t turn to ash,
never looking back lest I bled out of her

I was her best hopeless endeavor,
the first, & I tasted like the sour fruit
of her early bloomed womb

her love was a lie
& no one had to teach her;
she instinctually
cradled me in the nook
of her wished for death

Photo by Bruno van der Kraan on Unsplash